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bookcases were a few framed photographs of family and
friends.  In prominent positions was the one of his parents, both of whom had
recently died, and one of himself with Peter and Alice.  He removed both
photographs and stood examining them, one in each hand.
    Both of his parents, who had
worked in the redwood lumber industry, would have been amazed at the life their
son now led: a college professor and a secret agent for the government.  As he
studied their photograph, Oliver realized that the life his parents had led, though
completely different from his, was in fact happy and fulfilling.  He and his
parents had been surrounded by the majestic stands of redwood and Engelmann
spruce that had provided them with a stable environment for both work and
leisure.  
    When Oliver was a child, his
father had taken him on long outings into the surrounding woods looking for the
oldest and largest trees.  Stopping at old stumps to count tree rings, they
would then discuss what creatures might have walked in these same woods when
that tree was young.  Oliver’s young mind would create images of large Saber-toothed
tigers as they quietly made their way through the forest on a hunt for deer or
bears or giant sloths.  He loved these outings with his father and now realized
that they had formed his love of history.
    Cutten, California, had
offered a wholesome and stimulating environment for his boyhood and allowed him
to explore the world around him with little exposure to the crime and
inner-city strife he knew only through television. 
    Nothing in his childhood
memories was more exciting than watching giant redwood logs being cut into
lumber in the Georgia Pacific lumber mill where his father and mother had
worked.  As the steam-powered carrier, the size of a railroad flat-car, carried
a huge redwood log through the vertical band saw blade, he would watch each
piece of wood as it was carried away to be cut into standard lumber.  The floor
shook and the saw screamed as these logs were being cut.  The outer slabs of
bark would be directed down a chute into a flickering furnace.  The entire
sawmill ran on the heat from this furnace. 
    The drying yard that lay to
the south of the mill contained the rough–cut lumber that would eventually be
planed to standard size for market.  On one occasion Oliver’s father took him
out to the drying yard to see a special piece of redwood.  It was a slab 4
inches thick, 4 feet wide, and 16 feet long of solid burled redwood.  It was
worth thousands of dollars and would eventually become a conference table for a
large corporation.  It was the most beautiful piece of lumber Oliver had ever
seen.
    Oliver was also aware that much
of the redwood not used for lumber was sent to a nearby pulp mill where it was
made into paper.  Not until he went off to college in New Jersey, had he
realized all the newspapers published in Northern California smelled like
redwood.  None of the newspapers he picked up anywhere else in the country
smelled like home.
    Looking back and forth
between the picture of himself with Peter and Alice, and the one of his
parents, he realized that three of the five figures were no longer with him.  Alice,
alone, was his family.  The thought made him feel an emptiness that brought
back his grief at Peter’s death. 
    Examining everything around
him, he saw the smallness of this apartment as a representation of home.  Over
the years, as he pursued his career as professor and scholar, his sense of home
and family had become small and self-centered. Yes, there are his students here
in Chicago, and yes, there is his work with Maxine at I&A, but at this
moment, he felt very alone.
    He went to his kitchenette
and checked to see if he had eggs and bacon for his breakfast the next
morning.  Taking a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, he returned to the
study and turned on his laptop.  Opening a new document page he wrote, “You
must find the three.”  Oliver then stood